


A Study In Sauvignon.

by morwrach



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Drunk Philosophy With Llewellyn Watts, Edwardian era, Fine wines, First Kiss, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Oblivious Bisexual George Crabtree, Venusian as a love language, colleagues to friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24406228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwrach/pseuds/morwrach
Summary: “Wine,” hazarded George, raising a finger in the air, “might very well be just the thing to unite men from high and low backgrounds alike, women too! One could look beyond the cut of the trousers – or the skirts! and instead might very well say, “My good man! Isn’t this flavour of grape simply sublime?””George and Watts celebrate the publication of his novel.
Relationships: George Crabtree/Llewellyn Watts
Comments: 7
Kudos: 54





	A Study In Sauvignon.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [desperately_human](https://archiveofourown.org/users/desperately_human/gifts).



“I have drunken deep of joy, and I will taste no other wine tonight.”  
\- Shelley.

When a chap has had his book published – and by an awfully prestigious publisher at that, reflected George Crabtree morosely, he shouldn’t be sat around feeling sorry for himself.

And yet, here he was in the aftermath of a perfectly wonderful gathering, sat at his table with his chin in his hand and a heavy heart. If only thinking a thing was enough to make oneself feel it. He heaved a heavy sigh and pushed the nearest sherry glass idly with his finger, watching the dregs slosh around. It _was_ very nice sherry, and it _had_ been a very nice party. A signed copy of his new book and the promise to fix some things around the boarding house had been enough to convince his landlady that he could host a small gathering, as long as there were no unmarried ladies present. Well, no chance of that. He glanced wistfully towards his mantlepiece, where Miss Newsome’s postcard from London was propped, and wondered, not for the first time, when he might fall for someone whose ambitions were not so geographically opposed to his own.

Well, it was getting late, and that kind of thinking would get him nowhere. Standing, he began to gather up empty glasses and plates with traces of crumbs and carried them on unsteady feet to the sink. The problem with parties was that if you really wanted someone to be there, and they weren’t – then however much you liked the other people, it just wasn’t the same. Detective Murdoch had attended, and Dr Ogden, and of course Henry and Ruth, but he kept expecting to hear Detective Watts’ particular knock on the door and it had never come. Time had gone by, and toasts to George’s writing success had been drunk and cake had been eaten and Henry’s mistakes at work had been recounted and mocked, and still no Watts – and George had felt his good mood sinking lower and lower despite his attempts to smile weakly along with everyone else. When Henry and Ruth had made their excuses and began to leave, Henry had elbowed him rather hard in the ribs and consoled him that “I’m sure Detective Watts wouldn’t have missed it unless something important had happened, George.” And that was another thing! George grumbled to himself, shaking crumbs from the tablecloth, Why did best friends always have to read you like an open book?

Henry could be rather too observant for his own good sometimes, which was surprising given how appalling his detective skills were. Mind you, Henry did spout a lot of nonsense. There was that time a few months back when he was just idly observing the detective’s typing technique and Henry, identifying finger-marks opposite, had interjected with “Getting sweet on Detective Watts, George?

He had scowled and remarked "What does it matter if I sometimes glance for a few moments at Detective Watts, Henry? It's totally normal to admire a man. I admire Murdoch's strong jawline all the time!"

“Exactly!” Henry had replied, all smug and self-satisfied about godknowswhat, dodging the balled up piece of paper George had thrown at him. Ah, Henry. He shook his head and laughed despite his sour mood.

Table cleared, and the lamps turned low, he carried his typewriter back to its place and set it down on the tablecloth with great reverence and care. By the clicking of its keys, _Curse of the Pharaohs_ had been given life, _Solving Murder_ had been rewritten, and most recently – _A Man Alone_ , the novel that would hopefully familiarise all of Toronto with the name George Crabtree, had been written and rewritten, amended, expanded, and finally finished at this very table. That was not to say that all of his ideas came to him whilst sat at home.

Like any great writer, he took ideas from his own experiences, and counsel from his friends. Detective Murdoch had advised, with some misgivings, on the hypotheticals of alien technology and Dr Odgen on the properties of certain plants salient to the plot – but it was Detective Watts whose insightful questions and thoughtful musings had progressed the story and encouraged its creator over many months. When the Inspector had clapped him on the shoulder and told him to “better stick to policing!” in response to his suggested narrative, it was Watts who had drawn him aside and said, quite seriously “Unlike the Inspector, I have great respect for the genre of scientific romance…” 

Over lunches and tea breaks, during quiet moments on a case or leaning over George’s shoulder at his desk, Watts had proved himself the best critic, editor, and friend an author could ask for. Together they had even created a plausible Venusian language, though the Inspector had forbidden George from ever using it. If Watts had smiled at an idea, it had gone in – and no publisher could have convinced him to take it out. He picked up the copy he’d put aside for the detective from his bedside table and smoothed his thumb over the cover regretfully. Given Watts’ influence on _A Man Alone_ ’s formulation, it seemed all the sadder that he wasn’t here to celebrate its final publication. Laid down again, the ungiven gift sat next to his typewriter, its solitary state somehow conveying his lonesomeness better than any other metaphor. A man alone indeed.

He heaved another sigh and undid the buttons of his waistcoat and the knot of his tie before laying them on the back of the chair. He was in the process of removing his collar when he heard a sound, soft and barely discernible. A moment later it came again, more clearly a knock this time. He turned in its direction, and his heart leapt – on the fire escape outside his window, with a bottle in one hand and the other poised to knock for a third time, was Watts. It was all he could do not to bound across the room, but he managed a dignified stride, sliding up the sash and stepping aside as Watts swung his long legs ungainfully through the gap and unceremoniously pushed the bottle into George’s hands.

“I’m afraid I’ve arrived unacceptably late,” Watts said, looking about him, “I agreed to help Mrs Rabinowitz and –“ “No, no, not at all,” George interjected too quickly, “Well, yes maybe by my landlady’s standards but personally I’m delighted that you’re here. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that _A Man Alone_ would not have been acceptably celebrated without you.” “Hm,” Watts smiled and ducked his head in his usual bashful manner, but it was evident that he was pleased by the sentiment.

“I’ve got a copy for you here,” George began, setting the wine down on the table and picking up Watts’ gift, “I wasn’t sure if you’d want it signed - .”

He turned back to find the detective rocking back and forth on his heels with his hands in his pockets, but some of the awkward tension had gone from his shoulders. At the sight of the book he frowned.

“I – uh –“ he withdrew a book from his jacket breast pocket, none other than _A Man Alone_ by George Crabtree.

With the sight of his novel in his friend’s hand, the black clouds that had settled over George’s evening were well and truly dissipated. He felt almost buoyant with happiness, like Mr Méliès’ space rocket. He could feel himself beaming, and Watts’ features became soft and happy in response.

“How? When did you -?” George found himself asking. It had only been released that day.

“This morning. Scobie’s were good enough to keep a copy back for me,” Watts said, as if this were a completely normal length to go to, “I haven’t got further than chapter three…The moment when George finds his best friend has been taken over was particularly affecting…”

George was positively energised. He felt a great compulsion to surge forward and embrace him, and it was only the detective proffering the bottle he’d brought which curbed it.

“Cabernet Sauvignon. An appropriate wine for a celebration. I thought we might toast to your achievement.”

“Right yes. I’ll find some glasses – make, make yourself comfortable.” He gestured towards the pair of chairs drawn up to his table, and, shrugging off his coat, Watts set about finding a place to hang his hat. 

***

Alcohol, reasoned Crabtree, had a sort of time-travel side-effect. It felt like hardly any time had passed since he had poured the first glass of wine. Now they were almost at the bottom of the bottle - and had somehow relocated to the floor. Admittedly, it was a lot more comfortable sitting on the rug with his back against his bed – and Watts didn’t seem to mind, if his loosened tie and unbuttoned waistcoat were anything to go by. 

“So you see, the more you save, the greater your capital becomes,” said Watts, listing alarmingly to the left before righting himself, “but the more you have, the less you are –“

George was very sure that he did not see at all, but he hummed his assent anyway and took another gulp of wine. There was something awfully handsome about Detective Watts when he was talking about something that interested him. Maybe it was the way he furrowed his brow, or how his hands gestured expressively, elegantly even. He’d been thinking recently that Watts would make a good character; more instinctive than Jumping Jack, more cultured and well-travelled than the protagonist of _A Man Alone_ …More of a Sherlock Holmes figure, solving crimes through unusual means…A case of poisoned pastries perhaps…

“Marx and Engels believed self-expression is the key to preventing an alienated life,” Watts continued, draining his glass and reaching for the second bottle George had retrieved from his cupboard, “If we are not engaged with the world around us we become estranged from it. If we are to think, theorise, love, paint, write – we must eat, drink, read books, go to the theatre…”

Having successfully removed the cork from the fresh bottle, Watts threw it over his shoulder with an impressive lack of coordination. It arced high through the air, glancing off the clock on the mantlepiece and jostling the hands from their positions. It was no matter. With Watts for company such feeble notions as time seemed irrelevant, and happily, it seemed his companion felt the same. Lights had gone out across the city and the streetcars had stopped running, but Watts showed no inclination of leaving. 

***

“Wine,” hazarded George, raising a finger in the air, “might very well be just the thing to unite men from high and low backgrounds alike, women too! One could look beyond the cut of the trousers – or the skirts! and instead might very well say, “My good man! Isn’t this flavour of grape simply sublime?””

“Of course, one wine will not taste precisely the same to one person as to another…” Watts said, mumbling over his words, “What I taste as cherry might to you seem more like a blackberry when combined with the traces of sherry left on your palate…” “Everyone on earth could be tasting things completely differently, and the only way to know would be to swap mouths!” George interjected.

“Hm,” Watts mused momentarily, before reaching decisively over, grasping George by the shoulders and kissing him. Well, you could’ve blown George down with a feather! A sort of tingling began at his toes and raced through his entire body with the speed to rival the Pendrick Bullet. The press of Watts’ lips was gentle and warm, thoughtful and searching. George felt positively giddy in a way he could not blame on alcohol. He was suffused with a warmth that was gone all too soon when Watts pulled away, clearing his throat self-consciously.

“No, I believe it’s exactly the same. It _was_ an interesting hypothesis - ” His voice sounded unusually distracted even for Watts, and it wouldn’t have taken a promotion to detective to notice the way that his gaze was drifting back to George’s mouth. He felt rather proud and wondered if he wasn’t becoming terribly big headed.

“I wonder –“ George ventured slowly, “if it’s a matter of the duration. Maybe we should try again –? If I’ve learnt anything from Dr Ogden, it’s that good experiments need to be repeated multiple times.”

“A good point,” said Watts roughly, “Well George,” he swallowed, “if you are prepared to devote yourself to scientific study, then so am I.” There was a hesitancy in his dark eyes.

“I’d say we must! It’s our responsibility to science, nay our duty!” George replied with rather more enthusiasm than he had intended. He took a large gulp of wine in the hope of concealing his subsequent embarrassment and was relieved that Watts was in fact moving closer rather than backing away.

His hand shook slightly as it slid along George’s jaw to rest at the back of his neck, but neither of them commented on it, nor on how his grip on Watts’ upper arm was rather too tight to be scientific. He swallowed, and the sound seemed almost unbearably loud. Watts’ thumb was stroking the edge of his mouth, soft and thoughtful, but he showed no inclination of kissing him again. The seconds ticked by, and anticipation made him feel short of breath. When Watts’ downturned gaze flitted to his own, and then quickly away again, his stomach lurched with sudden worry that the moment had already passed. If George had been writing this scene in a novel, he might have questioned whether you were supposed to kiss other men in a different way to girls, but haste made him bold. The only thought in his head was to act before it was too late, and even that faded away when Watts kissed him back.

With each press of lips and stolen, hasty breaths between kisses, nerves gave way to happy disbelief. Watts’ stubble scraped gloriously against his chin, and his thumb stroked over George’s cheek with purposeful gentleness. He worried he was a little uncoordinated by comparison and his lips clumsy from wine, but Watts only hummed with contentment when George kissed him back with more pressure. Breathless, they parted, noses still touching, and George dared to meet Watts’ gaze, feeling stone cold sober all of a sudden. Watts’ smile was apologetically happy, and George felt himself smile back.The sense that life was progressing in a new and completely brilliant direction settled over his thoughts with a calm certainty. He felt, rather than heard, Watts exhale with relief before joining their mouths again. 

The room was quiet, and the wine was sweet on Watts’ tongue. George’s mind jumped erratically between memories – Watts examining a crime scene, Watts’ expression on biting into baklava, Watts reciting Rainer Maria Rilke poetry, Watts at his desk scratching away with his pen…Perhaps Henry had a point.

As they tumbled to the carpet, George reflected that it was a wonder anyone got anything done when they could be kissing instead. It was a miracle they didn’t investigate more crime scenes where victims had expired from willingly foregoing oxygen. Maybe this was why so many people became vampires… 

**Author's Note:**

> For Sparrow. Our friendship will last until the day I die, or if I turn into a mummy, much longer.
> 
> Thankyou for reading! Like George I am a sensitive soul, and glad of comments. I can be found on tumblr [@nettlekettle.](http://nettlekettle.tumblr.com/) If you wish to talk about these dorks, supernatural entities, or Edwardian neckwear feel free to message!


End file.
